Waking Dreams
by TimeDetonated
Summary: Sometimes past pains can not be so easily forgotten, something Faramir discovers first hand after the war. Written for the Teitho Weapons challenge.


Rain fell from the sky in sheets over the dark forest of Ithilien. The air was filled with tension as on both sides of broken down rubble, muddy figures shivered violently in a ever-failing attempt to keep warm. Cloaks clutched firmly against their bodies, the men lay in shallow, freshly-dug ditches which now seemed to become their graves.

When the war ended, Faramir had thought that nights that seemed to stretch on in tension and uncertainty had ended for him. He thought that he could finally forget his visions and nightmares of war and move forward in his life, even though Living without some kind of darkness, be it the shadow of the mountain or the doom of man, had been something he had never done before. Now he found himself facing such fates again, and in the disquiet his mind would stir, bringing back flashes of what he had tried so hard to forget.

The dying screams of men, both past and present caused Faramir to shudder despite his trembling. He turned onto his side in the muddy trench, trying to force the dark thoughts from his mind, yet failing. Too much was familiar, too much lined up. His clothing, the old ranger garb still cling to his form uncomfortably when wet just as it had a year ago. Mud still ran in his eyes painfully, obscuring his vision, and the rain still pelted at his skin like pebbles, leaving dozens of tiny red marks behind in their wake. Even the surroundings were the same. On both sides of him, huddled and shaking in the same manner that he was (if not dead), were the same men that he knew from all that time ago. The screams he heard where the same screams that haunted his dreams every night. The men, beasts, and enemies in the trench opposite them where still slowly freezing to death much the same way that his men were...but the worst part were the weapons.

Blood stained arrows, deadly gleaming swords, razor sharp claws. Those were the real enemy. Those were the things that caused his mind to twist into itself painfully and pull things back long forgotten. Those where the true things that kept him up at night, because it wasn't the people who wielded the weapons, it wasn't those that were the same as himself in almost every parallel, fighting for land and country. It was those deadly gleaming weapons that killed and took lives without conscience or thought. Those were the things that plagued him, the things that caused his men's blood to stain the earth and caused him to hear the screams of pain an horror in his ears. It's what caused him to have to hold men in his arms as they died, looking at him with trust as he promised that they would be okay...and later what forced him to listen to their loved one's heart-rending wails. It was the thing that he couldn't leave his bed chamber without seeing, the thing that made him unable to turn a corner without collapsing to the ground, shaking all over as his hand tore at his hair, trying to rip the vivid images from his mind as his king's voice struggled to call him back. It was the thing that took away all men's honor, yet was the tool that they use to defend it...and it was the only thing that could tether him to reality.

Slowly, the blood washed away and the screams quieted as the morning approached. Faramir clutched at the firm yet smooth wood of his bow, his thumb running in circles along the delicate, carved vines that adorned its shaft. With his eyes closed, he struggled to calm his breathing and his mind. The accusing looks on the faces of his dying men slowly faded away to be replaced with memories of his uncle and smells of the sea.

He remembered Imrahil's smiling face as he handed young Faramir a bow he had crafted himself, even though it was extravagant and expensive, it was the gift that young Faramir cherished most with all his heart. Finally, after a night of laying in a cold muddy ditch, he could open his eyes. And there was his king, hands clutching his worriedly in the royal chambers, arms enveloping Faramir in a fatherly hug the second he opened his eyes, relief and worry written on his features. And there, in his hands, was his bow.

A/N; Thank you for reading! Please R&R, and check out the very cool Teitho challenge :)


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